


Cherub

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [68]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied Slash, M/M, Mild Language, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 09:30:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17999279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Towards the end, Arthur visits Lancelot one more time.





	Cherub

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a comment fic prompt, "kiss the cold lips."

Arthur had thought he would only visit the cemetery the once, but apparently he’d been wrong.

His feet and the bike had brought him here; the weather was a perfect 65 degrees and sunny, and his hatred for it and everything else spun slowly in his gut as it had been doing for a few days now. 

The bike was going to a good buyer; in retrospect he should have called Gawain first, but he hadn’t seen or spoken to his college friend in so long it felt weird to do so. He’d found the new owner online, through a Triumph collector’s forum, and that would work out fine. He didn’t care, really, as like everything else, a grey wash seemed to cover all of what had made him happy or sad or angry or weepy or whatever else involved any kind of emotions at all. He just didn’t care.

The only thing he cared about was under the ground, and the heavy stone that covered him was blank and irritating and –

Oh. The carving was added to and Lancelot’s name and birth and death dates weren’t alone; there was a small angel that hadn’t been there previously. He wondered if Gwen had had it added just to piss her brother off; Lance had laughed at the idea of faith or church or anything having to do with what Arthur considered important in his life. Neither of the Benoit’s had been raised the way Arthur had, but Lance had never given Arthur a hard time – not mostly – and had been willing to go along with Arthur to museums or to exhibits or whatever Arthur had wanted to see that happened to involve history and his faith.

He reached out and touched the little cherub; it was fat and cute and Lance would have hated it for sure. Arthur’s smile stretched his face and made it hurt. The dappled sun that fought to make its way through the huge oaks stopped just short of Lance’s gravesite, and Arthur let his smile spread wider. 

“Gwen,” he said. “What the fuck.” 

The little angel was cold as it was marble, but its tiny face was expressive and Arthur squatted to get closer to it, closer to Lance’s name and dates, and for a moment the _grey_ lifted and his loneliness roared up and shook him and his throat almost closed as he caught the sob that rose before it could escape and vomit itself all over Lance’s headstone.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “God, and all his angels wept.”

Probably not for Lancelot, but Arthur didn’t care about that, as _he_ certainly wept for Lancelot, and that was more than enough. It was everything, and a few tears leaked down his face before the grey settled back over his shoulders and he stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. The beeping of the alarm on his phone forced a shiver out of him, and he turned the thing off. It was time to meet the buyer for the bike, and he turned to go, the sun falling onto his head when he got a few feet from Lance’s spot. His gaze fell to his right, onto the sidewalk and then across the way where the servicemen and women were buried.

“It’s close,” he murmured. “Close to you.”

He blinked and shook his head. Had he spoken? What about? Why out loud and why were his memory and his actions so wooden and forgettable over the past few days or weeks or however long it had been –

He heard voices, and he woke to his surroundings and he walked away from Lance’s burial plot and headstone and stupid cherub and went through the gates to the last ride on his Bonney. 

Knocking the kickstand up, he pulled his helmet over his head and gunned the engine and roared out of the parking lot, the little angel and its silly, stupid face the only thing he could see, and he imagined pulling it down off the grave and running it over repeatedly.

His train ride home after selling the bike, the cash the buyer had given him feeling heavy and lumpy in his pocket, was long and grey like everything else, and the loft was grey and his mind was grey and the coffee he drank was grey and he sat on the bench on his deck, and the ideas he had been formulating for a few days now were grey.

Up until today, when he’d visited the cemetery and seen that dumb cherub.

Now they were bright and multicolored and weird, and Arthur watched the sunset, his thoughts and ideas the only things that lit a world otherwise filled with a colorless, blank existence without Lance in it.

~

**Author's Note:**

> This is super depressing (to me at least), and I have no idea where it came from. Just inspired by the prompt I mentioned above, and while I have mixed emotions still about how I ended this series, I don't write Arthur or anyone feeling this way with any ease. I know anxiety and depression intimately, and this does not come lightly.
> 
> Sometimes writing about it from another's perspective takes it away from me, and that's a good thing. I love my Arthur and my characters a lot, and I'm sorry both he and Lance had to deal with what they did. I apologize for any triggers here, but those who have read this series or any of my stuff know how much I love angst and drama and I'm not changing Arthur's story because it makes me feel weird. I honor his struggles and all parts of them. 
> 
> xo


End file.
